They were always big on numbers at Wammy's. One half of a two-part consciousness or something like that. Qualifying and quantifying. Matt had never really got into it. He had a vague interest in binary as used in programming (or reprogramming) technology, because it was less math than a language that let you fuck with the system. And everything came down to binary anyway, didn't it? Wasn't that what they taught, too? Ones and zeros—10, 01, you were something or you were nothing.

Hell, no wonder Mello was so—

If that was the alternative. L was always number one, but L didn't count (L calculated) because he was L. Mello fought out supremacy with Near because the winner of that was first in a way, and that was what mattered, Matt guessed, since Mello had never wanted to surpass L and who the hell knew what Near wanted. Small numbers that had the illusion of changing. Matt, who was number three, had never been in a position to care. He very occasionally counted reasons—weighed options, looked at volumes of pros and cons to make decisions. He counted years, kind of. He measured them in cars he drove. People he knew.

(Cigarette butts left burning with small sparks on sidewalks, waiting to catch something on fire, or not.)

He knew a lot of people, had known more, so it felt sometimes like nineteen years had lasted twice that. That wasn't a surprise, though. They weren't taught to act their age. Matt thought he did rather well at that even so, feeling more normal than most, knowing how to stave off the hyper-suspicious analytical planning unless it was absolutely necessary. –Yeah, normal-ish. He was that. He'd met people who fell under the category of normal; most of them were boring. Unless, of course, they started doing stupid things. He'd met people who didn't, too. Wammy's was full of them. And he'd met Mello, who kind of…defied categorization. Maybe Mello's zest for things like that just sort of consumed him until the extraordinary what-the-hell was running through his veins and becoming who he was. Maybe Matt was just bad at categorizing. Maybe Mello was just weird.

"You're weird," he'd told Mello honestly a few weeks after they'd met. He gave people a grace period, but Matt felt sure of that short assessment.

Mello'd rolled his eyes. "Everyone here is."

"Well, yeah. But you're weirder."

"Am I really?"

Matt had nodded.

Mello's face had split into a wide grin. "Awesome."

-

When he heard about L Matt looked at himself from a distance and gauged his own reaction. Huh. There wasn't much there as far as grief for the distant detective, which wasn't a surprise. He hadn't known him. He'd known of him, of course—everybody knew, the great L, blah blah, the secretive success. He was two angular strokes of a ballpoint pen or one key tapped on a keyboard. Mr. 12th Letter of the Alphabet. He'd known L was someone deserving respect, but respect took a lot of effort. Especially when it was someone he couldn't see. He'd never thought of L as anything other than human, 'cause, well, you know, everyone was (even Kira—especially Kira—what a crackbrained idea) but he'd thought if anyone can deal with this Kira thing, it's that guy.

Apparently not, though.

God damn it, he was L, he wasn't supposed to be fallible. Great. Lessons to be learned: No one's so good they can't be brought down, intelligence has got nothing to do with morality, stay the hell out of the Kira case. Check, check, check. Matt was just fine leaving that to the experts—up to anyone crazy enough to go after that after the expert, well…

When he heard about L Matt felt a little skittish and a little sick and he wasn't the only one, but he wasn't going to let it shake him. Stay cool, right? Bad things happened. There was always the possibility. Sometimes Matt thought L had known that, though who knew.

…About five or six minutes passed, though, and then Matt thought:

…well, shit.

Mello.

Bastards had told him first, which was as it should've been—he and Near—not for the right reasons, though.

Mello wasn't L. Mello, Matt knew. Insomuch as anyone could.

(Matt had his hands in his pockets)

--He knew, he knew Mello was going to go out and, what. Pick up where L left off? Do something.

Not my problem.

(They'd both left, Matt was sure, by now.)

It's got nothing to do with me.

He was sixteen years old. He'd flirt with girls and snicker at jokes and live his life the way he wanted (almost). That made sense. And he'd watch the news sometimes and sometimes not and stay out, out, out of the Kira case because he was smart, but L'd been a hell of a lot smarter.

Good going, L, he said silently. Thanks a whole lot.

Near, okay, Near was a damned machine, but of course Mello'd chase after it, too. But Mello wasn't—

Bitter much?

It's not my problem, Matt thought.

-

Yeah, okay, so Matt still remembered where he'd been when—it didn't mean anything, not necessarily. He still remembered formulas related to particle physics, too, and he sure hadn't needed those since sauntering out of class a lot of Octobers ago. He remembered a lot of useless stuff. He figured, he had Wammy's to thank for that, they never threw anything away, or if they did they shredded and incinerated it. Paranoid freaks. Couldn't exactly make memory into deletable data—no one could do that.

If it was possible, he wouldn't have done it anyway. Even if remembering the past got—got really annoying now and again.

It'd been sometime after midnight. He'd been playing…what…Tetris? Yeah. He remembered the tinny little tune playing in the background. Russian, sort of. It'd been invented by Alexei something. Next to it the phone sounded loud and full and kind of sharp.

Matt picked it up, wincing.

"Yeah?"

"Hey."

The voice crackled with distance and bad reception; it sounded a little tired.

"Sorry? I can't—you're not coming through all that well, hold on a sec." He yanked up the antenna. "What?"

"Hey, Matt."

"…Who is this?"

"It's me." A pause. "Mello."

What?

Matt almost dropped the phone. "What, seriously?"

"Yeah." A short laugh. "Been a while. Listen, I—"

"Where the hell have you been?"

"What do you think?"

Alright. "Where are you?"

"L.A."

Get the facts. "The hell are you doing in L.A.?"

"You mean right now?"

"…Sure."

What it was like talking to Mello, he hadn't forgotten that but he hadn't heard it for a while either so it still seemed…strange. It was like, he never planned anything he said. Which was such bullshit, of course, because Mello was always making plans. Still—"I'm—look, I'll—"

"You want something?"

"Yeah." He could've sworn Mello was cracking a smile. "You."

…oh, really now. "For what?"

"Espionage." He made it sound so easy, so offhand. "Want the details?"

--the thing was, he did. "This'd be relating to the Kira case."

"'Course."

"Fuck you," said Matt easily. Like he was going to—okay, so it might be fun, spying on people, out doing something, getting at least a trace amount of adrenaline. …Working with Mello. That'd be something. That'd be something interesting. –Kira, though. No way. It'd been a long time since he and Mello were some kind of, what, dynamic duo. Not gonna happen. There'd been a time (a good while, really) where Mello would say Hey, let's do this and Matt would go, okay, because it was something to do. This was more than some crazy exploit, though. This was the god damned Kira case and he wasn't going to get—

(--Not going to be that easy, anyway. Not after--)

"Pity." Only Mello could get away with using a word like 'pity' following a 'Fuck you'. "I could really use your help, you know."

I could really use your help. What the hell kind of phrasing was that? And since when did Mello--? 'Could really use' was as close as Mello ever got to saying he needed something, and Mello didn't admit to needing anything outright. …Almost four years and out of nowhere, Mello needed him? He must really have been in…what was the phrase? Dire straits?

…it wasn't that that made him think that, though, but that Mello wasn't pushing this further. He remembered most everything about Mello, okay, fine. He did. He couldn't shred that. He remembered Mello's half-crazy ideas that almost always worked and how he'd get Matt into it, the kind of words he used, the voice, the damned grin that was so absolutely committed to getting drunk on whatever fun was soon to be had. Not as many words, this time, even when there wasn't an image to go with it. Wouldn't Mello usually be more…

"Could you," Matt said, matching Mello nonchalance for nonchalance.

"That's what I said, yeah."

(Mello never said anything he didn't mean. How did that work?)

"Mello—"

"I want to catch Kira, Matt." So straightforward.

Yeah, Matt thought. Yeah, I know you do. …he wanted Mello to catch Kira, too, for what it was worth. It'd make him happy. Why not. If someone, someone could just catch Kira already and put an end to all this—this. Then they'd all breathe easier. And Mello wouldn't be out making himself into a hazardous, unpredictable target for a psychopath.

…Matt was actually worried, wasn't he? (Damn it.) Had been. Following the stupid Kira case as much as he could, gleaning information, absently wondering what was going on and extrapolating and—he definitely was. …Which was stupid. If the Kira case had never existed Mello would be devouring risks either way, he was Mello, who was Matt kidding. Still. Mello always drove the stakes so high and still this seemed higher than even Mello could've wanted.

…something must've happened. Otherwise Mello wouldn't have called, or if he would have, it would have been less…

Whatever.

"I know," he said.

"I…" A rare hesitation. "…I'm not kidding when I say that this, this is pushing important. If you get what I'm saying."

"—are you alright?"

"…Enough." What? "Still. I want your help."

(What Mello wanted, Mello didn't always get, but he always tried.)

(--and he was already thinking well, it can't be that much, can it? A little espionage, spy stuff, I can do that, I'm good at that, it's incognito, it's not like--)

"—Going to be interesting?"

(--and thinking somewhere in the back of his mind that Mello knew I would. He totally knew.)

"Absolutely."

(How could it not be?)

…what the hell, Matt thought, why not. Because he was bored.

-

…for Mello he'd just have packed up and gone and he knew it and so he did. Mello who couldn't stand the thought of Wammy's anymore and hated asking for help—he'd trusted Matt when he had to. That was such a sharp contrast it had…depth, surety, force. Matt'd never really had any of those in abundance, for the most part.

He and Mello didn't have a whole lot in common.

--There was this energy between them, though. Not tension, exactly. Not entirely. A charge. A running line of energy that was sharp and edgy and seemed unbreakable, that crackled with gunpowder mixed with the almost sickly sweet smell of Mello's chocolate and Matt's smoke disappearing in grey wisps into night lit by flourescences.

There was that quintessential rarely-asked divisive Wammy's question (there were those that asked it and those that didn't): what if we hadn't come here?

…Ah, what the two of them could've been, y'know? Outside of danger and analysis and that stupid, that stupid fucking Kira case. They'd found each other interesting the moment they saw each other; they both knew that and never once mentioned it. Mello's irresistible smirk and casual threats, slouching but always alert, mind racing through a thousand different things of his own choice. Matt's easygoing sarcasm and way of coming at a question from such a different direction you didn't realize he'd avoided it for way too long. Oh, they would have been something else. There'd have been impulsive high-speed escapades—

--no point in denying it—

all over hell's half acre, exchanged grins and dodged everything. Quick and fiery, that sort of delirious contentment that you got when things…worked, only more lasting, because they were smart and they were nigh-unto invincible and they had each other such as they were, they had each other's backs

--but they were what they were, where they were, who they were; what they were doing.

So Mello'd called Matt and said come do this for me and after that Matt had never questioned a damn thing.

What they had:

….they had that.

Matt had the theoretically useless knowledge that he'd do anything, now.

(never had much call to know a thing like that before)

Mello had Matt at his beck and call and his trust however deserved; here was to hoping he knew what he was—well, no, Mello always knew what he was doing. Here was to hoping he met with success.

Who knew, maybe they'd actually win.

-

Mello's waiting for a phone call which he's going to conduct while smirking with a complete lack of tact; Matt's waiting for his watch to go off so he knows it's time to head out. New contact. Business as usual. Usual soundtrack, too—rare quiet interrupted by the crinkling of chocolate bar wrappers and an insistent clicking from a little black handheld console. With the occasional

"—ah, damn—" scowl through a cigarette and oft-used four-letter word: dialogue, kind of.

"What?" says the one with the chocolate, rolling his eyes.

"Phoenix ran me off the road." A sigh. "Son of a bitch. I was winning this one—"

"Phoenix? What the hell kind of name is that?"

"Oh, it's not that bad, is it?" Matt shrugs. "All right, you know. Mythical creature. Rising from the ashes and all that?"

That, Mello's going to ignore. He does. "What're you playing, anyway?"

"DLH International 3000."

"Racing?"

"Yeah." His eyes are back staring intently at the screen. "Pretty simple. Just a bunch of tracks."

(--the caller is now three minutes late and Mello's thinking that he's going to have to make threats pretty soon. That should be easy. He doesn't make contacts without figuring out first how he can keep them on wires. That's just common sense, and a little bit of Mafia courtesy. Tea and blackmail? Anyone?)

Mello stretches like a cat and yawns, leaning over Matt's shoulder to eye the Game Boy skeptically. "What's the one you're doing?"

"Potosí."

Bolivia; maybe he'll go there someday. "Potosí?"

"Potosí."

"Not a lot of racecars, in Potosí."

"That so?"

"No one could afford them, could they?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Economy's pretty shot. Most people, are, what—" He snaps his fingers. "—expendable labor, not going out to buy one of those things."

Matt just hits a 'pause' button and looks up at Mello. "Okay, how the hell do you know?"

"Not exactly hidden."

"You're interested in international economics now?"

"Kira is."

Kira, Kira, Kira. "Yeah, well, Kira's also interested in killing people." Matt rolls his eyes and returns to the game—

"So am I."

--not even swerving once. Mello would probably suck at this game. You need speed, but reined back, cutting edges and exercising caution on sharp turns. Control and patience and things like that to navigate the track, which in Potosí you went around six times, and Matt knows full well Mello'd get bored after two. He wouldn't see the point, Mello wouldn't. And, Matt supposes, there really isn't one in the first place. "Yeah?"

"A place like that," Mello says, swinging back on topic, "You have people prime for Kira support. Lots of crime and poverty. Much easier than Japan." He finishes the chocolate with relish. "You see enough of that, you hate it or become it, right? People are stupid."

"So lots of supporters and criminals to off and gain support?"

"Yeah. Kira makes use of things." There's a mess of thought and conclusion behind that, and, as usual, Mello's not tossing it out like birdseed to the general public. L never did.

Matt shrugs again as he passes a checkpoint and a five-note monophonic melody plays him congratulations. "Doesn't everybody?"

"Of what they can see—" Mello coughs; a breeze is giving him Matt's cigarette smoke. "—sure. I said, though, people are stupid."

"But interesting."

"—but interesting."

"Without a doubt."

"Interesting."

But interesting's not the watchword of the day when all this time's spent waiting. Although frankly, Matt thinks Mello's always interesting:

he's the most actively bored person Matt's ever met. Matt gets bored. Matt knows bored. Matt would beat bored over the head with an actual board if he could because people do awfully stupid things when they're bored, and because it feels like an unnecessary weight dragging a person unwillingly through time—but through the kaleidoscope that's Mello's mind? It's present. It's, what, it's vibrant ennui that radiates from Mello until it's almost tangible. It has color and character. Matt gets the sense of someone simultaneously shuffling through cast-off irrelevances it'd take years to unravel, and straining against the confines of opportunity: got to go somewhere, do something, yank someone in.

--It's stuffy in here.

Matt's bored, and it's…boring. So he glances up from his game to watch Mello, except that doesn't work because he finds Mello already watching him.

"What're you looking at?" he asks, amused.

"Thinking," is the shameless reply.

"About what?"

"War-torn Lebanon," says Mello sarcastically. He holds Matt's stare for a moment before turning to the phone. "Czarnechi's late. That guy is asking for trouble. Five more minutes, and he's getting a busy signal."

"Who—"

"Six of his employees and his superior. It's like pulling bricks off a building." A fleeting grin. "Easy."

(Matt remembers doing the research on that, not knowing what it was for. A list of names and what looked like a flow chart.) "—he's got a family, doesn't he?"

Mello nods. "Yeah, that's why—"

--ah, there's the tinny beeping of Matt's watch. At last. "Time to go." He stands up; lights another cigarette. "That's my cue—"

"Have fun." Sardonic, this time. "Godspeed."

Matt almost reaches the door before Mello speaks again.

"…Be careful, alright."

…

What the hell? Matt thinks, and gets a door and a hallway between himself and Mello before pausing, shaking his head, and continuing on. Another day and another place and another handful of risks, and he doesn't have the time to stand still—not anymore.